Wherever You Will Go
by HardlyFatal
Summary: The sun had not been seen in months, the last of the horses had been eaten, all three dragons had perished, and they were out of the wood needed to burn the dead; only Beric Dondarrion's sword could be counted upon for that grim task. Thus in that despondent state did commence the last of the battles, on the darkest of days. COMPLETE


The sun had not been seen in months, the last of the horses had been eaten, all three dragons had perished, and they were out of the wood needed to burn the dead; only Beric Dondarrion's sword could be counted upon for that grim task.

Thus in that despondent state did commence the last of the battles, on the darkest of days.

Despite their best efforts to stay together, it was inevitable that Brienne would be separated from Jaime. She had to remain with the Stark contingent, after all, having sworn herself to protect them at any cost.

In contrast, Jaime was needed to command his own battalion, and tried to keep an eye on his brother, besides. At this last, desperate hour, when all seemed lost, even Tyrion was armored and swinging his ax once more, Bronn and Pod flanking him. Pod had wanted to remain at Brienne's side, but she sent him off to the younger Lannister's side with a telltale quiver of her chin.

"I'll be with His Grace, and the Hound, and Tormund," she had told her squire. "Mormont and Beric, too. I'll be fine. Lord Tyrion needs you more than I."

Pod had looked doubtful, but as always, obeyed his lady to join Tyrion and Bronn. Jaime had fought his way to them periodically, to ensure they still lived with his own eyes, but always— _always_ — returned to Brienne. He was but a dented scrap of steel and she his lodestone, in every way that existed.

Thus it was that Jaime left his brother's trio and began his journey yet again across the battlefield to the king and his retinue. As the fighting grew more and more desperate— as the temperature grew more and more bitterly cold— abruptly, the Night King was there, with a brace of White Walkers with him, the lot of them surrounding Jon and the others.

It took the efforts of both Jon and Clegane to counter the Night King's strikes, leaving only Brienne, Tormund, Beric, and Mormont to fend off the White Walkers accompanying their liege. The flames of Beric's sword threw ghastly orange shadows over them all, clearly illuminating the despair overtaking them.

They did well— as well as they could, in those frigid, hopeless circumstances— but Mormont went down on Brienne's left. Alarmed, Jaime hastened toward them, not worried so much about defeating any wights in his way so much as clearing them from his path to Brienne.

She took a precious few seconds to shift into Mormont's now-vacant place, tightening the circle she and the rest presented to the enemy, and they were seconds she could ill afford. Tormund slashed out at the Walker who had downed Mormont, protecting Brienne's open side, but took a spear to his own as a result. Brienne killed that Walker, but another took his place just as swiftly. Tormund fought on as best he could, but all too soon, he was collapsing to the ground. Brienne and Beric exchanged a fraught look before grimly continuing.

They were having the same trouble as Jaime, fighting the same obstacles that were keeping him from rejoining Brienne. The ground was so thick with bodies that it was impossible to move with anything like surety, instead stumbling and tripping over the limbs and torsos of those who had, just moments earlier, been friends.

That was what did for Brienne, in the end. She swung low to thrust an uppercut with her sword into the belly of a Walker, staggered over Mormont, and went to her hands and knees, Oathkeeper flying from her hand.

"No!" Jaime screamed as she was swallowed by the writhing mass of fighters, and abandoned any hope of defeating the wights between them for the desperate purpose of simply getting to her side. He shoved and slashed and ran, ran, ran. A Walker stood over Brienne; he separated it from its head almost absently, and didn't spare it a glance.

She stood back up just as he reached her, and he sucked in a frigid gasp of relief. But then—

 _Then_ —

He saw that the blue of her eyes was no longer that lambent hue of Tarth's sapphire waters, but gelid and pale, and when she looked at him, there was nothing of the love he knew she bore him.

"No," he repeated in stomach-twisting horror, exhaling the word, a plea to the gods, a supplication, destined to go forever unanswered. "Brienne, _no_."

He expected, then, for her to attack him. He had wondered many times in recent weeks if he would be able to fight her, _kill_ her, should the need arise. He now had his answer: no. Why would he fight Brienne? Even if they defeated the Night King, even if the realm of men somehow conquered that of the undead, with her gone, what was left for him? A lifetime of watching the seasons pass, without even a gravestone to mourn by?

And so Jaime just stood there, waiting for her to come to him. And she did, she walked toward him with that peculiar grace she'd always had on the battlefield. If not for the unnatural stillness of her face and the utter _wrongness_ of her eyes, she was just as moments before, when she'd still been alive.

"Brienne," he whispered when she was within reach. Dropping Widow's Wail— it was useless to him now— he lifted his hand to her cheek, wondering if she'd construe the action as hostile. But she just tilted her head to the side, as if wondering what he was doing, but knowing he wouldn't harm her. It seemed that, even undead, Brienne knew him. _Trusted_ him. The thought broke his heart, forced a sad and bitter smile to his lips.

"I love you," he told her. He'd said it to her before, many times, and had heard it from her just as many in response. He wouldn't hear it again, but needed to say it one last time. "I love you."

Then he kissed her. He heard shouts of alarm, of terror. Tyrion, Bronn, Clegane, even Jon Snow himself. All were calling for him to pull away from Brienne, to save himself, to rejoin them and fight on.

But even had Jaime wanted to, it was too late. Her lips were cold, colder than a corpse, colder than ice itself. He felt the chill spreading from Brienne into him, felt it taking him over, felt his thoughts become hazy and his limbs turn weak and heavy.

When he fell, as usual, it was into her arms.

And when he rose again, his eyes were as blue as her own.

Brienne had regained Oathkeeper at some point, and now placed Widow's Wail back in Jaime's hand.

Together, always together, they turned to confront the enemy.


End file.
